


The Adventure Of The Locked Chapel (1897)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [165]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cock Rings, Dean in Panties, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Hundred of Dengie, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Politics, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Weather
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 21:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11517876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Justice finally catches up with a vicious killer – but was it divine intervention, or was a human element involved?





	The Adventure Of The Locked Chapel (1897)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of ex-president Murillo'.

Mention the word 'bugs' to most people, and they will think instinctively of insects. But to me, the word brings back memories of a bizarre little case in the wilds of eastern Essex, not far from our beloved Futility Island. Here once more, Sherlock showed the difference between justice and the law, allowing the killer - well, one of the killers - to walk free. Securing the other killer was, for once, beyond even his great and wonderful talents!

(He made me write that last bit. If you cannot work out what I got in return, you need to read more. I recommend my earlier works.)

That summer, of course, was one where everything revolved around the Diamond Jubilee celebrations to mark Her Majesty's accession to the throne some sixty years back, in what increasingly seemed like another age even though it was but fifteen years before my birth. Although the multitude of events were on an even more lavish scale than those of the Golden Jubilee ten years before, there was also an increased sense of foreboding, not just because of the ambitions of Imperial Germany and the ongoing tensions across the Continent, but because we all knew that the dear old queen did not have many years left, and as for her son and heir.... harrumph!

There were three days of celebratory events in the capital, after which Her Majesty would adjourn to Portsmouth to review the Fleet. I went to bed on the third day, June the twenty-fourth, feeling exhausted, especially as I had spent that day as a volunteer doctor on call for all the cases of sunstroke and over-exposure that were bound to happen when a country descended _en masse_ to a single city for such an occasion. Sherlock, bless the man, just held me close that night, and I subsided gratefully into his embrace.

I was still tired the following morning, though the almost lazy orgasm Sherlock had wrung out of my half-asleep form had helped awaken me just a little. Our late breakfast was almost lunch, although of course Sherlock had no problem with bacon for either. I smiled across the table at the scruffy little urchin, only to see him frowning at the “Times”. 

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“There has been a violent hailstorm in Essex”, he said, reading the article. “Widespread damage is reported over an area of one hundred square miles. And someone has been killed.”

“Death by hailstorm”, I mused. “Surely the ultimate Act of God.”

“In this case”, he said, “it may not have been.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I rubbed my leg lazily against his under the table, and he gave me a warning growl which, of course, made me instantly hard. 

Well, almost instantly. Still, not bad for a forty-five-year-old.

“The dead man was one Mr. Salvatore Murillo, former president of the Republic of San Quentin”, he said. “He fled to England earlier this year when there was yet another takeover of his country, this time with him on the receiving end. He had ruled for barely four months, but in that time had killed or ordered killed over a thousand people, probably more, before fleeing with a large part of the country's treasury.”

He who lives by the sword, I thought wryly, continuing to rub my leg against Sherlock's. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“I think that there is more to this story than meets the eye”, he said. “That, and the fact that my brother Luke has said that he wishes to call round.”

He growled again as my leg reached further across, and moved suddenly and swiftly round the table. Before I could gather my wits, he had one hand inside my dressing-gown and.... oh my God!

“Such a good boy!” he praised. “Luke will be here in just over an hour. I think that gives us plenty of time, don't you?”

“Yes!” I nearly qualified as a choirboy at Westminster Abbey with that pitch. And then he was teasing my balls, and I came with a moan, tears in my eyes. 

“One”, he muttered. 

“One?” I questioned, puzzled.

He gently stood me up, and guided me into his room, before laying me gently out on the bed. I lay there still shattered by my recent orgasm, but as he swiftly undressed, I found myself rising to attention again with an impressive turn of speed.

“Two?” he muttered, moving closer.

Hot damn!

+~+~+

“Would you like another cushion, doctor?”

I scowled at Mr. Lucius Holmes, who looked amusedly at the two of us. I think that even the worst policeman in the Metropolis would not have had any trouble working out what had just happened in these rooms in the past hour, judging from my tattered state. Sherlock, of course, looked totally unaffected, which was just not fair!

The damnable thing was that I would have liked another cushion. Sherlock had reached four in his 'counting lesson' earlier, and had had to waken what was left of me when his brother had arrived not long after.

“Stop teasing John, Luke”, Sherlock said equably. “How is Alfie?”

“Still finding it amusing every time someone is surprised that I am not his father”, his brother grinned. “Although he does sometimes call me daddy....”

I glared at him. 

“Remember, I too can share”, Sherlock warned him. “I do not think that you would ever view the Ancient Romans in quite the same way if I described what I put poor John through during our last case.”

“Maybe he should write it in his stories”, Mr. Lucius Holmes grinned. “Half the ladies in the capital are sure that that is what happens anyway, and that has not stopped them yet.”

“Or any passing hunky rower”, Sherlock agreed.

“I am _here_ , you know!” I said testily, wincing as my suddenly loud voice hurt my head. They both just laughed, the bastards. I would have pouted, but complicated facial expressions were beyond what remained of me just then. 

“So”, Sherlock said, settling himself down and unwrapping a barley-sugar. “What does Bacchus want this time?”

“He is worried over this death by hail in Essex”, Mr. Lucius Holmes said, accepting a barley-sugar from his brother. “This mess all began back in 1860, when the then government – unwisely, in my opinion – yielded to pressure from the Americans and effectively leased the Mosquito Coast, one of our few Central American possessions, to the state of Nicaragua. Three years ago the Nicaraguans went and annexed it, and we lost considerable face because our deal with the Americans meant that we could do nothing.”

“San Quentin is a tiny place, barely twenty miles at its widest point, but it is its position in the region that makes it important, right where Nicaragua meets Honduras. They also own one small island out in the Gulf of Mexico, so their reach extends a long way for such a small country. As you know, the French are building a canal across the isthmus further down in Colombia but the Americans want to take it over, because it will enable their ships to go between their two coasts without sailing all the way round Cape Horn. They are even talking of a second canal across Nicaragua impractical I think, with our current technology. Either way, the position of San Quentin – and the latest administration there is pro-British, which has annoyed Washington no end as they helped them get rid of the old one – is vital.”

“Are you saying that the country's ex-president was murdered?” I ventured. “By whom?”

“The list of suspects would probably fill a book by itself”, Mr. Lucius Holmes said acidly. “If not an encyclopædic set! He still has some supporters back in San Quentin, so dispatching him removes a source of annoyance for everyone in power. And the Americans, Nicaraguans and Hondurans might all think that doing it would earn them kudos in the eyes of the new regime.”

“Mr. Popular!” I snarked.

“Murder by a foreign power on British soil”, Sherlock said thoughtfully. “That could have some unpleasant repercussions.”

“Indeed”, his brother said. “President McKinley is also quite likely to intervene in the mess that the Spanish are making of nearby Cuba, so there is that to add to the mix too.”

“Where did the ex-president die? Sherlock asked.

“A tiny place called Uxley, in Essex”, his brother said. “Probably the back end of the back end of beyond.”

That was one of those moments that I wished that I had been better at concealing my emotions. Both brothers noticed at once.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asked. I hesitated.

“One of the people who writes to me regularly about your adventures lives there”, I said. “A lady by the name of Mrs. Melody Wing.”

“Part of your 'harem'?” Mr. Lucius Holmes smirked. I decided that I did not like him after all.

“She has supported my efforts for many a year”, I said stiffly, “right from the “Gloria Scott” case. She is the president of the Bradwell and Uxley Grammatical Society, a local reading and writing club.”

“B.U.G.S!” Mr. Lucius Holmes snorted. “Sherlock, I believe that you may have a rival for the doctor's affections.”

“Not if he knows what is good for him”, Sherlock said primly.

How I managed to blush when my body was barely capable of any movement, I had no idea. But I did it somehow.

+~+~+

Sherlock had recently had a four-poster bed installed in his room, which I had thought a little extravagant. However, that night I found out just why. After tying my wrists to the top corner posts, he let down a thick strap of leather that ran from side to side, with loops at each end, inserting my socked feet through each loop. I was trussed up more effectively that any Christmas goose, and damn if that did not make me hard within seconds. Sherlock grinned evilly and positioned himself at my entrance.

“John?” he said carefully.

“Mwah?”

“Tell me about this Mrs. Melody Wing.”

I stared up at him incredulously.

“That is”, he added, “if you wish to _come_ tonight.”

I suddenly felt the click of the cock-ring around my base, and my eyes widened. Then he was pushing our largest dildo slowly inside me, and damn if the bastard wasn't teasing my prostate. My cock strained against the ring, and I whined piteously.

“Tell me”, he whispered. “We have all night.”

I was already crying, and the thought of this agony being prolonged for hours – no, I could not bear it. I forced myself to speak.

“She wrote to me when our first case was published in the “Strand” magazine, way back in 'Eighty”, I ground out. “Please!”

He teased my prostate still further, and added to my agony by gently tweaking my nipples. I knew that words would only get harder (like everything else), and hurried on.

“She was at school then, her parents having come over from America to live in Essex”, I managed. “She is married to an Englishman, and they have three children. Lord have mercy!”

And with that he changed his angle and went straight for my prostate, I was not even aware of his slipping off the cock-ring, but he must have done, for I came with a guttural roar that shook me to the core, before falling back into my trussed position. He gently removed my feet from the leather loops, allowing me to collapse into an untidy heap of broken humanity.

“You should call in and see her”, he said, gently kissing his way down my chest. “I am sure that she would appreciate such a thing.”

I smiled weakly, before I realized just where he was going with that mouth of his. Oh my poor aching body!

+~+~+

I do not think that I was ever more grateful for both Sherlock's wealth and his predilection for first-class travel, for I was still incredibly sore when we set out from Baker Street the following day. The cab ride across the city to Liverpool Street was sheer agony, not helped by a certain blue-eyed genius' knowing smirk. And he had insisted, despite the fact that we did not know how long we would be away for, that I wear his favourite pair of blue and black panties, which meant I would be greeting one of my readers in the knowledge that..... 

Lord, I was so whipped! But at least the silk was both cool and comfortable.

The train that we boarded at Liverpool Street Station was nice enough, and I enjoyed being able to lift the arm-rests and lie on my side along the length of the seat, trying to ignore both the ticket-collector's glare and Sherlock's hungry look that told me I would be in for a rough night. Again. But I was a manly man, and I could handle it. If I could not, then he would have to pay to bring my body back to London for burial.

We changed at Wickford for a small branch-line train to Southminster, the nearest station to Uxley. The line ran across the lower part of the Hundred of Dengie, a wild area that was a little reminiscent of our recent trip to Romney Marsh, but drier and somewhat more cultivated. Alighting at the terminus, we hired a carriage which took us through Asheldham, Dengie itself, Tillingham and Bradwell-on-Sea (which, rather curiously, was not 'on-sea'), before heading towards the North Sea coast. About halfway along, there was a small gathering of five or six houses strung either side of a small dead-end side-road (I am being charitable in using the r-word), which comprised the hamlet of Uxley, near which the ex-president had met his doom. And where my greatest 'fan' lived.

Before departing London. Sherlock had arranged rooms for us at the King's Head in Bradwell-on-Sea, and I had wired ahead to Mrs. Wing to let her know that we would be in the area. I had not of course received or expected a reply from such a remote area, so I hoped that our unexpected arrival would be welcome. 

It was. Mrs. Wing was delighted to see us both, and her husband Jonathan was equally welcoming. Their children were away spending a week at their grandparents' house in Maldon, which I suppose was a blessing. And of course, my supporter (who enthused over the latest hardback book that both Sherlock and I had brought and had signed for her) was very willing to tell us what she knew of the death of the ex-president.

“The newspapers are calling it an Act of God!” she snorted disdainfully, her American accent still notable despite over two decades in England. “Bunkum! Unless God has suddenly taken to locking his own door!”

“Perhaps you might tell us the whole sequence of events”, Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up at the chocolate cake that she had brought out. There was even a fresh pot of coffee. She knew him well.

(There was a hint of a suppressed simper on her face when she looked at him, but I chose to overlook that. Plus, the look on her face when she looked at me suggested that somehow – and Lord alone knows how – she knew what I was wearing beneath my trousers. I wondered if it was indeed possible to die of embarrassment!).

“We had a meeting of the Society on that day, the twenty-fourth”, she reminisced. “We are normally six in number, but three of us are away for one reason or another, so it was just myself, the Reverend Carter and Rod.”

“The ex-president?” I asked, confused.

“No, his manservant”, she explained. “Rodrigo Vincenze Alejandro Felipe San Carlos, so we just call him Rod. Huge hulk of a man but a good fellow; he's seeing a village girl, Ellis Highnam. The vicar's niece. We finished at about eight, and the vicar left to walk back to the vicarage, which is in the village of course. Rod had told us that he and his master had walked down the village earlier, and that he would be calling for him on his way back, so he went and waited for him at the junction. I saw the two leave for their place, which is close to the old chapel, at about ten past eight. It was still light at the time.”

I nodded. The 'old chapel' was indeed that, one of the oldest Christian churches in England, founded by St. Chad back in the seventh century amidst the ruins of an old Roman fortress, as he had striven to turn the East Saxons from their pagan ways. Successfully, albeit after a long struggle.

“The ex-president did not come here?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head.

“He would not be welcome here!" she said. “I know that one is not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but frankly I could not stand the man. Fortunately we are on a slight rise, so we could see his approach form the village and Rod was able to be there waiting for him. Rod did not say anything, but I was of the distinct impression that he would lash out at the man if he had dared to keep him waiting.”

The ex-president sounded a veritable loss to humanity, I thought wryly. Sherlock shot me a warning look.

“Rod told me later that his master had wanted to go to the chapel to pray for a while”, Mrs. Wing continued. “I found that a bit odd; I did not think that the man was the least bit religious, but you never know. He had tried to dissuade him – it had been a devilishly hot day, and the clouds threatened some heavy rain – but the man insisted. Just after they parted company at the crossroads, the storm struck. Rod ran to the house, but his master must have decided to make for the chapel, as it was closer and he would have been safe in there. But for some reason the building was locked, and he was trapped outside.

I knew what that meant. The Hundred was, like Romney Marsh, predominantly flat and with little cover except for its buildings. Anyone caught outside in the hailstorm that had hit this area – our driver had pointed out what it had done to an old abandoned barn – might as well have stood in front of a firing-squad. 

“Who had a key to the chapel?” Sherlock asked.

“The vicar has one, and the light-house keeper the other”, she said. On seeing our confused faces she went on, “the lighthouse stands not far from the chapel, and the keeper keeps a general eye on the place. Alaric Peters, his name is, but I do not see why he would have locked it. It is a holy place, after all.”

“What about the distances?” Sherlock asked thoughtfully. “How far is it from the crossroads to all three buildings?”

Our hostess thought for a moment. 

“Mr. Murillo's house is about a hundred yards due north”, she said. “Perhaps slightly less. The light-house is about three to four hundred yards east, although it is a poor track. And the chapel must be about two hundred yards to the south.”

“Was Mr. Rodrigo treated for any injuries arising from his exposure to the hailstorm?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes”, she said. “Doctor Fuller said that he had some quite bad ones. He also said that Mr. Murillo had a broken jaw, although Rod said that he had obtained that during his time in the village.”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said.

We both looked at him expectantly.

“Indeed what?” I asked.

“Well, it seems quite obvious”, he said. 

“Was it murder?” Mrs. Wing asked, clearly as confused as I was.

“Not by the strict legal definition of that word”, Sherlock said cagily. “Murder requires malice aforethought. Whilst I do not doubt that the killer may have eventually resorted to murder, he instead took an opportunity presented to him by an Act of God, and turned it to his own ends. I think that we should pay a call on the vicar, just to clarify my theory, and then all will be done.”

We both stared at him.

+~+~+

The Reverend John Carter looked at us both dubiously. I could understand it in Sherlock's case; we had walked the mile or so back from Uxley, and his hair was even more of a wreck than usual. I blushed when thinking of someone's choice of my underwear for meeting with a cleric.

That knowing look was just downright irritating!

“I do hope that the great detective does not suspect a man of the cloth”, the vicar said warily.

“I have had clerical killers before”, Sherlock said lightly. “Indeed, one of my first cases, back in 'Seventy-Seven, involved a priest who killed someone, and ironically an Act of God was involved there too. No, vicar, I just wish for some answers to one or to questions that I have. When you and Mr. Rodrigo visited Mrs. Wing's house, were you both on time?”

The vicar looked at him suspiciously, but answered.

“Rod was a little late”, he said. “I think his master wanted to go for a walk, and of course he took Rod along. I remember him – Rod – saying that he feared he might miss the Society meeting, but that his master had said that he was seeing someone in the village, and would collect him on the way back when the meeting was over. I left before them both.”

“Do we happen to know who he was seeing?” Sherlock asked. The vicar shook his head.

“No”, he said. “All I do know, because I asked, is that he did not visit the pub. I am just grateful that he let Rod attend the club; I would not have put it past the man to stop him through sheer spite.”

“Mr. Rodrigo seems amazingly well-read for a recent arrival to our shores”, Sherlock said smiling.

“He may look like a hired thug, but he is in fact a most gentle man”, the vicar said defensively. “He has a particular preference for Shakespeare, but we disagree over Dickens, of whom he is not overly fond.”

(I could sympathize with the incomer there. I found the great man depressing at times, although “A Christmas Carol” was one of my favourite works).

“I would also welcome your opinion of the late Mr. Murillo”, Sherlock said.

The vicar's face darkened.

“As a man of the cloth, I am always inclined towards charity as regards my fellow humans”, he said loftily. “But that man did not have a single redeeming facet to his character! I have read of the depredations that he inflicted on his distant countrymen during his short and disgraceful rule, and I know that he often treated poor Rod badly, especially after the man took up with my niece. If God himself had not removed him, I am sure that one of his former countrymen would have hunted him down and finished him off. And the world would doubtless have been a better place without him, as it surely shall be.”

I could suddenly see this vicar locking the chapel door and smiling as the hail beat a man to death outside. And he did have a key to the place. I shuddered.

+~+~+

I had thought that when we walked back east out of the village, we would be either returning to Mrs. Wing's house or going to see the mysterious Rodrigo, but instead Sherlock continued on past Uxley and called briefly in at the light-house, before returning to the crossroads and walking down to the tiny chapel. It was a lovely, simple building, and it seemed incredible that it had stood here, symbolizing an outpost of Christianity, for over twelve centuries. Of the Roman fort, over which it had been raised and which was but a few centuries older, there was no sign. Such was the enduring power of Christianity.

The building was not empty. A slender young blonde lady was kneeling down and praying, whilst a tall and muscular dark-haired man stood silently beside her. Sherlock did not advance to disturb them, and waited for them to finish before stepping outside to wait for them both. Presumably the mysterious Rodrigo and his girlfriend, Miss Ellis Highnam.

The two came out of the chapel, and I thought instinctively that they were an odd match, the huge muscular swarthy foreigner and the tiny English lady. Then again, perhaps Sherlock and I were an odd match ourselves.

My friend broke into my thoughts.

“Good afternoon”, he said softly, “I am here about the killing that you committed recently.”

Rodrigo took an angry step towards him, only for the girl to place a restraining hand on his huge shoulder. I would have doubted that anything could stop this man-mountain, but he froze at once and looked uncertainly at her.

“It's all right, Roddy”, she said quietly. “Let them speak.”

“It was ironic, was it not?” Sherlock said quietly. “When one looks at all the hundreds if not thousands of people that Mr. Murillo killed, many in person, and all the crimes that he committed as president. Yet what finally did for him was a combination of some unwise words, and an Act of God.”

“Go on”, Miss Highnam said. I noted that she kept her hand on the giant, holding him in place. 

“You, Rodrigo, lied about the circumstances of your return home”, Sherlock said. “Your master collected you from Mrs. Wing's house, that we know from the evidence of others, but your journey home was not uneventful. Possibly words were exchanged in which Mr. Murillo accused you either of treachery, or of seeing an English girl and establishing ties here when he himself wanted to return to San Quentin one day. Certain it is that tempers were high by the time you reached that crossroads yonder.”

“He did both!” Rodrigo growled. I silently wished that I had brought my gun, and not left it in my bag back at the King's Head.

“And it was singularly unfortunate that Miss Highnam, having seen your employer in the village, had walked to the house to see you, and of course had missed you as she had forgotten that it was your book club night”, Sherlock went on. “When she met you both at the crossroads, Mr. Murillo said something that you could not forgive. I do not doubt that the time was fast approaching when you would have felt compelled to betray your master, even if it were something as passive as informing his many enemies as to his location. But as it turned out, you did not need to.”

“You did not, as you later told Mrs. Wing, leave your master at the crossroads. When he said those disrespectful things about the girl that you loved, you hit him and rendered him unconscious. I do not doubt that you considered taking him into the house to recover, but at that precise moment, the great hailstorm broke.”

“It quickly became clear that this was no normal storm, and that anyone out in it ran the risk of severe injury if not death. The two of you decided that, as God had forced your hand, you would use the opportunity for your own ends. You, Rodrigo, ordered Miss Highnam to take cover in the house, whilst you easily hoisted the body of your master and carried it to lie against the door of the chapel. You took shelter inside until the storm had abated, whilst the hail beat your unconscious master to death.”

The two stared at him in silence.

“I was puzzled by two things arising from Mrs. Wing's most excellent description of this area”, Sherlock said. “Firstly, if matters had indeed happened as you had claimed, Rodrigo, then you would have had to have run a distance of less than one hundred yards to reach shelter, yet you subsequently needed treatment for your injuries. And if he truly had faced a locked door at the chapel, Mr. Murillo could easily have run the three hundred yards or so back to his house, albeit sustaining some injuries along the way. Unless, of course, he was in no fit state to move.”

“The rest is easy. Miss Highnam waits until darkness to return to the village, and you, Rodrigo, use the same darkness to retrieve the key kept by the light-house owner – it hangs on a nail in an unlocked porch, I saw earlier – and lock the door to the chapel before returning it. The superstitious will of course say that God saw such an unholy man approaching his house, and took measures to keep him out.”

“He was evil!” Miss Highnam almost spat out. “The world is a better place without him. And we did not kill him.”

“Not directly”, Sherlock admitted. “This is difficult, and regretfully the doctor here will not be able to publish this case for many a year. I am not superstitious, but I am inclined to view that hailstorm as the means of death of, as you say madam, an evil man. But”, and he wagged an admonitory finger at them both, “be sure that neither of you ever comes to my attention again!”

“We shall not!” Rodrigo said fervently, wrapping a huge arm around his lady. And whatever anyone later said, I did not move behind my friend at that moment.

How could I see a smirk from behind?

+~+~+

Despite the late hour, we called in on Mr. and Mrs. Wing on our way back, and Sherlock explained the case to them, enjoining them to keep it secret. We made our way back to the peace and quiet of the King's Head, and enjoyed a restful night before our return the following day.

At least it would have been restful if Sherlock had not insisted on making full play of me taking off the panties. And the bastard had brought me another pair to wear home, too! We took a later train home the following day, and he teased me the whole way back to Baker Street, where I made my displeasure manifestly clear.

Very manifestly. Three times!

+~+~+

Just over two years later, a card would arrive at Baker Street informing us of the births of Rodney and Charlotte St. Charles, son and daughter to Mr. and Mrs. Roderick St. Charles of Bradwell-on-Sea in the Hundred of Dengie, Essex.

+~+~+

Next time, Mr. Marcus Crowley crashes back into our lives. Quite literally.


End file.
